


(every now and then) on my mind

by zjofierose



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angstober, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mild Blood, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-12-17 10:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21052820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: This is going to be a long-term thing I pick at for a while, esp when I have writer's block: I want to work through all the Angstober prompts, but given that it's the 15th and I've completed four, I think we can safely say this is gonna take a bit. These are all just little vignettes, I doubt many of them would be in the same universe even, so dropping in and out should be fine, and the relationships are probably going to run the gamut. Tags will no doubt grow/change, and I suppose the rating might as well, who knows.I got sucked into YoI this summer, but for all you Sheithers out there- never fear. I am not transferring ships, I am merely expanding the armada! (Also, fuck me, I have a real bad pattern of making my first fics for every fandom angsty, whoooops)Y. Plisetsky is Yuri; Katsuki Y. is Yuuri.





	1. "I can't do this anymore"

**Author's Note:**

> ch 1: Victuuri

It’s three weeks before worlds, and Viktor is face-down on the hotel bed, moaning with abandon as Yuuri digs an elbow into the back of his thigh. The knot is deep, and tight, and Yuuri silently despairs even as he applies a steady pressure to the painful, twisted muscle. He can hear the damp catch in Viktor’s voice, has seen the way that Viktor has struggled to land his jumps over the past weeks. 

Yuuri shifts his weight, tracing the pain slowly down Viktor’s leg by touch, concentrating on keeping the pressure even, the movement slow, allowing the muscle to release itself in the face of his determined displacement. He’s focused, so intent on his task that he doesn’t catch Viktor’s muffled words the first time. He lifts his head, his brain belatedly replaying the sentence. It was Russian anyway, he thinks, Viktor tired and emotional enough that his instincts favor his mother tongue.

“Sorry?” Yuuri asks, and Viktor sighs hard. 

“I said, I can’t do this anymore,” Viktor mumbles into the pillow, his voice cracking with fatigue and disappointment. 

Yuuri freezes, the forces himself to relax, to take a breath. Viktor doesn’t mean that, doesn’t mean them. He  _ knows _ this, he does.

“I’m going to retire,” Viktor says softly, and Yuuri leaves off his attentions to Viktor’s leg in order to drape his weight across Viktor’s whole body, pressing him into the mattress and hiding him from the world. 

He’s been expecting something like this for a while, if he’s honest - Viktor’s 32 now, and while the four years that separate them is not that big of a gap in any sort of real life situation, the difference between 28 and 32 in figure skating years might as well be at least a decade. 

“Are you sure?” 

Yuuri can’t imagine it, if he’s honest - he’s never lived in a world where Viktor Nikiforov wasn’t a skater, can’t remember a time when he wasn’t raptly watching Viktor glide across the ice, can still barely grasp that he’s caught up to Viktor, that they’re genuinely considered equals these days. The thought of figure skating without Viktor in it is shocking and unprecedented to Yuuri’s mind, even as he knows, has always known, that it is one of life’s inevitabilities. 

“I’m sure,” Viktor answers, his voice soft but certain, and buries his face in the pillow for a long, silent moment. “I’ll compete at Worlds, and then I’ll announce it,” he says, and Yuuri buries his face in Viktor’s shoulder. “It’s been a good season, up till now. I’d rather go out strong and competitive than spend a season battling injuries and failing. Or worse, get hurt and have to quit mid-season.”

Viktor shivers underneath him, and Yuuri nods into his neck in understanding. It makes sense, of course it does, and Yuuri can no more avert it than he can stop a train by standing in front of it, than he can keep the tide from pulling at his feet by blowing on a wave. 

“Your skating lives on in me,” he whispers, “and in Yurio. And in whomever comes after us.”

“I know,” Viktor whispers, and the sound of it breaks Yuuri’s heart. “But it won’t be the same.”


	2. "you said you loved me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pre-victuuri

_ You asked me to come, _ Viktor types into his phone,  _ you asked me to come and be your coach. You wrapped your arms around my neck and looked at me like I was the sun and stars, and you begged me to come here and be with you. _

He gives a lengthy sigh, and Makkachin thumps his tail in faint acknowledgment. It’s three in the morning, but jetlag is a bitch, and for all that he’s traveled in his life, Viktor still often struggles to fall asleep in strange places. Yu-topia feels less strange than most, which no doubt explains his ability to nap with abandon earlier, but nonetheless, here he sits, alone and awake and illuminated by the chilly glowing light of his phone.

There’s a gentle snore from the room next to his, and Viktor drags a hand through his hair, deleting the text from his phone screen before starting again. 

_ Why are you playing so hard to get? _ he types,  _ I don’t understand. I’ve never had as much fun in my life as I did dancing with you, as I did watching you. You mesmerized me. You enraptured me. Don’t you want me? Don’t you want me here? _ He drags a hand across his face, thumbing his keyboard to Russian and closing his eyes before typing blind.  _ Why didn’t you call me? Was it just a game to you? Do you not want me here? Should I leave? _

He opens his eyes again, staring at the text on the screen, at the cursor winking back at him. 

He deletes it all and lies down on the bed, rolling onto his side and pulling the covers to his neck. 

There’s nothing to do but push onward, he decides. If Yuuri doesn’t want him here, he needs to use his words and say so. Until then, Viktor will do as Yuuri had asked those several months ago: he will be his coach.

He flicks away from the messaging app, skims through twitter, instagram, his email. He clicks his phone off and sets aside, then impulsively flicks it back on and types hurriedly, eyes closed, before thumbing it dark and tossing it to the floor.

Silent and dark, a sentence lingers, an unseen afterimage on the blackened screen.

_ You said you loved me. _


	3. "you weren't here when I need you the most"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> victurio? maybe if you squint? or else just they're close and emotionally co-dependent. your call.

Viktor pauses outside the door to straighten his coat and breathe, releasing the death grip he has on the small tiger plushie in his hand. It’s going to be okay; Yakov had told him it would be fine, had told him there was no point in him coming, that he could just come tomorrow before he flies out.

Viktor may like to play dumb, but he’s not stupid; he had to come tonight. 

It’s after visiting hours, but even halfway across the country in Sochi, he’s still  _ Viktor Nikiforov, _ and the desk attendant had taken one look at his costume and his performance make-up and his most charming smile, and waved him on through. Now here he stands, twisting his fingers outside the hospital room door, listening to the low murmur of voices down the hall and the soft, insistent beep of distant monitors. There’s a low light on in the room, but he takes a deep breath and opens the door slowly, careful not to make any unnecessary noise.

At first he thinks Yuri’s asleep, and his heart clenches at the sight of the too-small shape curled under the standard-issue blanket, the spill of golden hair across the pillow. He tiptoes closer, hardly daring to breathe, and reaches out to pull the blanket up across the thin, exposed, shoulder, wanting to cover it against the cool night air. He can see the line of stitches marching in neat black x’s at Yuri’s hairline, seven of them against the yellowed and bruising skin. 

Viktor shudders at the memory of watching Yuri fall, of the way his eyes had widened with horror as he realized he couldn’t catch himself properly in time, of the sound his arm had made when it hit and the way the blood had bloomed instantly across the ice as his head had followed.

“Took you long enough,” Yuri mutters, eyes closed, and rolls over until his back is facing Viktor.

Viktor sighs and settles on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“How the fuck do you  _ think _ I’m feeling, asshole? I broke my fucking  _ arm _ and my fucking  _ head _ on the fucking  _ ice _ .”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says, but it sounds lame even to his own ears. “What’s the prognosis?”

“I’ve got a fucking concussion, and seven goddamn stitches in my face,” Yuri bites out, his breath shaky. “They’ll operate on the arm tomorrow.”

“Oh,  _ Yura _ ,” Viktor settles a hand on Yuri’s hip, and Yuri flinches away. “I’m so sorry.”

“And where the  _ fuck _ were you?” Yuri shoves himself upright abruptly, IV yanking against the metal arm of the bed. His hair is wild around his face, and Viktor can see the darkening bruises running down behind his ear.

“I had to skate, and then I had to do press, Yura, you know that,” Viktor tells him, willing him to understand. The injury was terrible, and Viktor had been up next, and as much as he’d wanted to follow Yuri on the stretcher to the hospital, Yakov had caught him by the shoulders and sent him back.  _ “I’ve got him,” _ Yakov had said even as Viktor pushed against his hold,  _ “do what you came here to do.” _

“Had to win that gold,” Yuri hisses, throwing himself down with a vengeance, unable to hold back the choked sob as he lands a little too hard on the firm mattress. He turns his back again, and Viktor rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

“I didn’t medal,” he whispers, and feels Yuri freeze next to him. “Yura, I…”

“You weren’t here when I needed you the most,” Yuri chokes out, and Viktor kicks off his shoes and climbs into the bed, curling himself protectively around Yuri’s small form, pressing his face to the back of Yuri’s shoulder and cradling him as the silent sobs shake his rigid body.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor whispers helplessly, “Yura, I’m so sorry. I’m here now.” He lets the tears run down his own face, twisting carefully so that the IV line is unobstructed and Yuri’s splinted arm is free before dragging Yuri carefully back against his chest, whispering it like a mantra. “I’m here now.”


	4. "how are you not terrified?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> implied Victuuri, possible unrequited yuri/yuuri, or yuri/viktor, depending on how you want to view it. 
> 
> also, TW for a passing mention of implied child abuse, TW for passing mention of a drowning, and TW for mention of gun violence.

“How do you do it?” 

“Do what?” 

Yuri leans on the boards next to him, his hair immaculately braided into place and a scowl on his delicate features. It’s almost insulting how perfect he looks, Yuuri thinks, and his skating will be just as unmatchable as the rest of him.

Yuuri, meanwhile is sweating uncomfortably into his spandex, his guts churning with nerves as he waits for their warm-ups to begin. 

“How are you not terrified?”

Yuri snorts. “Seriously, Katsudon?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says softly, turning to look at him fully. “I  _ hate _ this. It’s not always as bad, but sometimes…”

“You’ve won three gold medals, broken Viktor’s records twice, and you still get this nervous before you go on the ice?” Yuri asks, his tone incredulous. “What on earth are you afraid of?"

“That I’ll fall,” Yuuri tells him instantly, “that I’ll fail.”

“Everybody falls, Katsudon.” Yuri turns his attention back to the rink in front of them, glistening with fresh zamboni trails. “Everybody fails, too.”

“That I will fail, and that Viktor will leave me, and that my family will resent me, and that you will despise me,” Yuuri says softly. “That everyone will see what I’ve been hiding all along, that I’m worthless and useless and unlovable.”

Yuri blinks. “All of that from one fall, piggy? Really?”

“I never said it was rational.” Yuuri shrugs and looks away. He and Yurio are close these days, but it’s still always a gamble whether Yurio will engage in a serious conversation or not. Age has done little to dim his mercurial nature.

The silence stretches for a moment between them, casual and unacknowledged. The zamboni is making its final laps when Yuri sighs and speaks again.

“Look,” he says, “I know you grew up with like, your parents and your sister and Yuuko and Minako-sensei, and I get… I get that it wasn’t always perfect. I know you had your own shit to deal with. But it was different for me.” His hands are tight on the rail and Yuuri can’t look away from the whiteness of his perfectly sculpted knuckles. “When I was little, my mom had boyfriends who would hit us. When I was six, my friend drowned in the creek behind our apartment building, and I was there when they fished his body out. When I was nine, I was mugged at gunpoint for grocery money.” His voice is perfectly even, and Yuuri can’t breathe. 

“This,” Yuri gestures out at the muttering crowds, waving their flags and taking their selfies as they find their seats, “this is  _ nothing _ . What is there to be afraid of here? Some idiots who think they know about figure skating? A stupid fall?” Yuri sneers. “No one should be afraid of this, Katsudon.”

The zamboni finishes its lap and exits the rink, the boards overhead lighting up with the ticking clock for their warm-up. Yuuri pulls off his skate guards and steps onto the ice, turning to bend briefly toward Yurio. 

“Thank you for answering my question, Yuri-chan,” he says, and smiles softly. “You are truly amazing; gifted like you are, and afraid of nothing.” He turns and glides away, moving into the start of his step sequence at the far end of the rink.

Yuri scowls. “Said I wasn’t afraid of  _ this _ ,” he mutters, pulling off his skate guards, his gaze following as Yuuri pulls up next to Viktor, his face wreathed in a smile. He drags his eyes away, tossing his guards on the floor and stepping onto the slippery surface to take his place with the rest of the spinning, circling cluster of other skaters. “Didn’t say I wasn’t afraid.”


	5. "maybe it's too late"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just yuuri being yuuri

After Sochi, Yuuri is aimless. He sits his finals and passes them; all he needs to do to graduate now is write and defend his honors thesis by March, but first there’s the Japanese Nationals. 

He bombs them. 

It’s not a surprise: he’s practiced - he doesn’t actually know how to not practice, if he’s honest - but it’s like gravity is claiming back dues for years of defiance, like he’s traded in wings for sand. He flies home to Japan and washes out in front of a home crowd in what should be one of the most humiliating experiences of his life, but instead it just feels like an extended roaring in his ears.

He falls. He falls in practice, he falls in competition. He falls getting out of bed in the morning, falls when he trips over the lintel to the bathroom. Knowing it’s all in his head makes absolutely no difference.

His paper gets written because Phichit sits him down regularly and makes him do the work. Yuuri’s grateful for this; it’s not a good paper, but it’s good enough. 

In between bouts of paper writing, he goes to the rink. He has no classes this semester, so he may as well live there - what else does he have to do? Celestino’s keeping his distance; Yuuri feels bad about it, but he’s genuinely undecided about what to do next season, and Celestino knows it. He’s focusing on his other students instead, and Yuuri can’t begrudge him that, not really. He’ll still offer feedback if Yuuri asks, is as open to talking as always, but Yuuri’s not there yet, can’t bring himself to imagine what it looks like to end his career any more than he can imagine what it looks like to continue it. 

He watches Stay Close To Me. He saw it on tv when Viktor debuted it, of course, and at every competition in the fall, not to mention live at the GPF, but he hadn’t watched it since until he comes home one afternoon in early February, gets a yogurt, and puts it on YouTube on a loop. It takes three hours and six Yoplaits until he has every motion memorized; he dumps his spoon in the sink and rinses the yogurt cups for recycling, then goes to the rink.

Viktor is… Viktor is inhuman, Yuuri thinks as he closes his eyes and lets the opening chords echo through his mind. He’s not actually, of course - Yuuri knows as well as anyone that Viktor was born (St. Petersburg, Christmas Day of 1989), that he sweats and bleeds (the time he fell at juniors when he was twelve and cut his hand; blood all over the ice and he still came back to take silver), that he puts on his costume one leg at a time (this year’s GPF locker room before warm-ups, Yuuri had nearly died when he realized that what he was seeing was  _ Viktor Nikiforov getting dressed _ ) like everyone else does.

Still, he’s never felt further from Viktor in his life than he does as he works his way through the piece, flubbing the axel and changing the quads to triples because he can’t jump them. He’s a caricature, a funhouse reflection of Viktor’s grace and he knows it, but he hears the music change and settles into a spin, because what the fuck else can he do? This is all he knows, skating, and Viktor, and he has nothing else left.

He hands in his paper and gets his diploma, packs his suitcase and hugs Ciao Ciao and Phichit, promising he’ll let them know what he decides. He flies home to Japan and takes the train to Hasetsu for the first time in years, unable to decide if it feels more like he’s dreaming now or if he’s been dreaming for the past half-decade. 

He skates it for Yu-chan, because it’s all he has to offer. He’s fat and getting older all the time; he’s been gone for years and not kept in touch; he knows she’ll get it, though, that she’ll see past all that to what he’s trying to do. He takes off his glasses and moves to the center of the ice, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

The music in his mind starts and he begins to move, but the rushing of his blades against the ice only whispers in his ear,  _ maybe it’s too late, maybe it’s too late, maybe it’s too late _ .


	6. "why are you leaving?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri v Yuuri

Yuuri must see him heading for the door with his gear, because suddenly there’s a hand wrapped in his hood and an overly-earnest pair of brown eyes staring beseechingly at Yuri when he turns, teeth bared, to see what the hold-up is. 

“Why are you leaving?” 

The question is quiet, pleading, and Yuri pulls his face into a sneer. 

“Why would I stay, pig?”

“Because you won?” Yuuri looks genuinely confused, and Yuri wants to kick him repeatedly in the face.

“I didn’t,” he spits out. “ _ You _ did, and if you think I’m wrong, you can get fucked.” He’s angry, so angry, but he can’t keep the morose tone out of his voice. “You didn’t see Viktor’s face while you skated.”

“Stay,” Yuuri tells him, hand still clutched at his clothing. “Stay and train with me. Viktor can coach us both.”

Yuri shakes him loose, turning to fully face him at last. He knows his cheeks are blotchy with emotion, his eyes glittering with unshed tears. He wishes he could be cold, cutting, sharp and hard like the ice he spends his life on, but he burns too hot, too strong, too desperate.

“You got what you wanted, piggy, can’t you be happy with that? You stole the greatest skater in the world and hog-tied him to yourself. You’ve taken down the great Viktor Nikiforov without even coming  _ close _ to beating him on the ice.” Yuri can feel his fists balling, his breath coming short and fast. “Guess that leaves the field open for the rest of us, though- and I’m going to beat you so hard that you lie on the ice crying while Viktor wishes he’d never left Russia.”

Yuuri’s eyes are wide and hurt, and he hunches his shoulders as though he can better withstand the torrent of Yuri’s words by bracing his soft, sloppy body against them. Yuri despises him. How can it be that this sorry sack of a person can be taking Viktor away from everything he’s ever worked for? Ever dreamed of?

He watches as Yuuri takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. He steps forward, graceful and larger than Yuri himself, though Yuri refuses to give any ground, regardless of how far into his space Yuuri comes. 

“You won’t,” Yuuri says to him, and his voice rings with confidence, “I’m going to beat you. I’m going to win gold for Viktor, and show everyone they were wrong about him. And me.” 

Yuri stares at him for a long moment. He’s like a different man, one Yuri’s never met before, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. So, he does what he always does: he lifts his chin, tosses his head, and laughs.

“Sure, piggy,” he says, and walks out of the door of the rink into the cold air, heading for home.


	7. "give me another chance"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victuuri, pre-slash

Yuuri hits the ice, hard. It knocks the wind out of him, and he lies there for a long moment, breathing slowly and trying to let his ribcage settle back into his chest. 

Viktor says nothing, which means that he saw, and which also means that he knows or at least assumes that Yuuri’s uninjured. Which is, for varying definitions of uninjured, true. 

Yuuri takes a deep breath and sits up. At least his years of falling have trained him to always touch down hands first - he’d managed to slow his fall enough that he hadn’t hit his head, just his back. Well, his back and his hip and his tailbone, all of which immediately ache as he picks himself up onto his blades and begins a slow loop. 

Everything hurts, but everything always hurts - it doesn’t matter. 

He concentrates on breathing slowly, in and out, in and out, the rhythm of his lungs attuning to the rhythm of his blades on the ice. He’s tired, but it doesn’t matter. He aches, but it doesn’t matter. Viktor says he has stamina, but Yuuri’s not sure it’s true - he suspects it’s more that he’s just learned to stubbornly ignore the pain and exhaustion that other skaters take as warnings from their bodies, that he’s learned to hit the wall and keep going, dragging himself through his paces over and over until his brain might finally be able to rest. 

The music starts in his mind, and he leans into the first spin, marking it instead of going full-out. He pulls out of it and begins the crossing back entrance to the jump, thighs burning, lungs desperately heaving to pull in enough air. 

His speed isn’t enough, he can feel it even as he digs his toe pick viciously into the ice. He grits his teeth and completes the rotations, but there’s no saving the landing and he falls, again, tumbling across his hands and knees onto the ice. 

Yuuri picks himself up. There’s ice shavings on his pants, so he dusts them off, wincing as his hand bumps against a new bruise on his knee. He stands, turning to see what Viktor has to say. They’ve been at it for hours, but Viktor’s been quiet this morning, and Yuuri’s not quite sure what to make of it.

Viktor’s blue gaze on him is calm, unwavering, and Yuuri can’t read the look on his face. For all that Yuuri has been majoring in Viktor Nikiforov Studies for the last sixteen or so years of his life, Viktor is still an enigma wrapped in a mystery on the best of days. He likes Viktor just as much, maybe more, than he always thought he would, but he cannot begin to fathom why or how Viktor does half the things he does, or says the things he says, or even why he’s even come to Japan in the first place. 

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Mari-neechan had told him gravely. “If he wants to be here in Hasetsu training you instead of competing in Russia, who are you to question it?” Yuuri had nodded in agreement, watching as she dragged her cigarette down to ash. “And,” she’d added as an afterthought, “don’t give  _ him _ any reason to question it either.”

“I think it’s time we called it a day,” Viktor says now from the boards, and Yuuri opens his mouth to protest. “And I don’t want you trying the quad Salchow any more for the moment. You haven’t landed it consistently in weeks.”

“But, I…” Yuuri starts, and Viktor’s face shutters, that bland public smile settling into place on his delicate features. 

“Now, Yuuri,” he says, and Yuuri wants to wipe that look off his face by any means possible, “you wouldn’t question your coach, would you? Surely such a well-mannered student as yourself would never dream of second-guessing their coach’s decisions?”

“Give me another chance,” Yuuri pleads, skating to the boards in defiance of every ache and pain. “I’ll land it this time. I  _ know _ I will.”

“You won’t,” Viktor says, and the matter-of-factness of his surety is more gutting than any passionate remonstration. “You’re too tired and too caught up in your own head. You’ll just hurt yourself more than you already have today. Come on.”

He holds out Yuuri’s skate guards, setting them on the edge of the boards when Yuuri makes no attempt to take them from him. “Let’s go,” he says, and turns, coat swirling fashionably behind him.  “Please,” Yuuri begs his retreating back, willing the shake out of his legs, the tears out of his eyes. “ _ Please _ , Viktor - give me one more chance.”


	8. "I love you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victuuri, pre-slash

He gets the first poster when he’s nine - it’s a Christmas gift from Yuu-chan, just a fold-out picture of Viktor in his performance at Junior Worlds from a skating magazine, but Yuu-chan has gotten it laminated and presents it to him with a ribbon and a smile. 

Yuuri loves it. He puts it on his closet door so that it’s the first thing he sees when he puts on his glasses in the morning, and the last thing he sees before he turns out the light at night. 

The next two come from his family, one from Mari-neechan and one from his parents: his enthusiasm for Viktor is beginning to veer on obsessive territory, but everyone’s very indulgent of it. It’s normal to have heroes, it’s normal to have icons, especially at his age. Minako has posters of famous dancers all over her studio, and Mari’s room might as well be wallpapered in her posters of boy bands. So what if Yuuri knows what Viktor’s favorite food is? So what if he spends all his allowance on magazines with Viktor’s pictures or Viktor’s interviews in them? He’s a skater, too - it’s only to be expected that Yuuri would want to emulate the best.

The fourth poster is the first one that isn’t of Viktor skating. It’s a posed photo, Viktor, now aged sixteen and taking the world by storm, sitting on a stool and leaning forward, mouth slightly opened like he’s about to ask a question. His long silver hair is flowing down around his face, and he’s wearing a suit, his tie loose and hanging between his knees, shirt collar unbuttoned. 

Yuuri puts it on his wall and stares at it for a long time. It feels strangely intimate, like he’s seeing Viktor as an individual for the first time, off the ice and not in costume. 

Viktor’s feet are bare, Yuuri notices eventually, pale toes curled around the rungs of the stool. They’ve been cleaned up with photo editing, but Yuuri’s trained eyes can see the shape of calluses, the faint shadows where the bruises would lie. 

“I hope that you wrap your feet after every practice,” Yuuri tells him, and immediately feels silly. Viktor’s a professional; he knows how to take care of his feet. A single one of his toes is probably worth more than the whole onsen at this point. Still, Yuuri thinks, and reaches out to carefully touch the curve of that delicate bare arch. He pulls his and back and sighs, looks up at Viktor’s face. “I hope you’re eating well,” he says, and then crawls into bed.

By the time he goes to train in the US, his room is plastered with posters just as thoroughly as Mari’s. He stares at them as he packs, shoving clothes and training gear and school supplies into his suitcase. He could take them, but he worries they wouldn’t travel well, and besides - who knows what his new roommates will be like? His relationship with the Viktor on his walls feels private, not like something he wants to display to strangers.

“Good night,” he tells them that night before bed, “I’m going to America. I’m going to become as good a skater as I can, so that I can compete on the same ice as you someday.”

Viktor stares silently back, his blue eyes wide and disarming, his smile soft and encouraging, with just a hint of challenge caught in the corner.

Yuuri exhales raggedly, forcing down the nerves that buzz underneath his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting colors burst behind his eyelids in the dark of his skull. When he opens them again, Viktor is still there - still smiling gently in Yuuri’s direction. 

“Viktor,” Yuuri whispers, and then, because he’s trying to practice his English, he bites his lip and whispers, “Viktor. I love you.” 


	9. "do you still love ___"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Otayuri, referenced victurio.

“Do you still love him?”

Yuri blinks, leaning up on an elbow to look at Otabek where he lies naked on Yuri’s bed. The mid-morning sun is gilding Otabek’s warm-toned skin, so vibrant next to Yuri’s own milk-white translucence. The golden light bounces off Otabek and onto the stack of boxes in the corner of the room, casting deep shadows into the corners and catching dust motes as they dance through the air.

“What?” Yuri asks, too surprised to give it his usual level of attitude.

Otabek rolls his eyes. “Do you still love Viktor?”

“Viktor’s  _ married _ !” Yuri splutters, pulling himself upright and schooling his face into an expression of horror that’s only slightly off what he actually feels. It’s less horror at the concept of loving Viktor, and more horror at Otabek voicing such a thing, but it’s close enough, he thinks. Yuri yanks the sheet over himself, trying not to make it obvious how much he’s avoiding Otabek’s eyes.

“So?” Otabek asks calmly. “That doesn’t mean you’re not still in love with him.”

“What do you mean,  _ still _ ,” Yuri snarls, “and why the fuck are you asking a question like this? Aren’t we moving in together? Having we been together for years now?” He can feel the sinking in the pit of his stomach, can feel fear twisting its claws into his gut. He’s been too transparent, too obvious; he’s made Otabek doubt his regard, and now Yuri is going to  _ lose _ him, going to lose  _ everything _ , and he’ll be more alone than ever, and-

“Yura,” Otabek’s hand lands on his bare knee. “Breathe.”

Yuri draws a shuddering breath, swiping angrily at the sudden wetness on his face. “How dare you,” he grits out, his hand shaking as he pushes at Otabek. “How fucking  _ dare _ you.”

Otabek sighs, pulls his hand back. “Yurochka, I’m not angry. It’s not a secret. I came into this relationship knowing you were in love with Viktor.”

“You  _ what _ ,” Yuri stares at him like he’s grown antennae. “You have been dating me for three fucking years knowing…  _ thinking… _ that I’m in love with someone else?”

“I just wondered if you still were,” Otabek tells him, his face serious and implacable. “That’s all.”

“I… Bekyusha, I love  _ you _ ,” Yuri pleads, sure his face is blotchy and red and deeply unattractive. He can’t care, because the most important thing in this moment is that Otabek believe him, that Otabek not leave him.

Otabek finally sits up, all the glorious muscle of his chest and abs rippling as he reaches out and drags Yuri bodily into his arms. “I know you do, Yurochka,” he murmurs, and the gentleness of it is Yuri’s undoing. He crumples silently into Otabek’s arms, burying his face into Otabek’s shoulder, body shaking with fear and anger and helplessness. “I know you do.”

“Then  _ why _ ,” Yuri gets out, his voice muffled by Otabek’s warm skin.

“I wanted to know if I’m going to be sharing you forever,” Otabek says, and the calmness of his voice makes Yuri want to hit him. “It’s okay if you do, Yura. I’d rather have part of you than none of you. I just want to know where I stand.”

“ _ First _ ,” Yuri clutches at Otabek’s neck, fingers digging into his shoulders in what’s probably a painful grip. He forces the thoughts of silver strands and a blue, blue gaze, of a lilting accent that sounds like home and the relentless touch at his arm, his elbow, his hip, from his mind. He fills it instead with the richness of dark eyes and thick, coarse hair that curls in his fists; of broad, brown shoulders and the scents of leather and gasoline; of comfortable silence and endless patience. “You’ll always come first, Bekyusha,” Yuri vows, voice thick in the warm air.

Otabek just nods, and tucks Yuri’s head closer against his chest.


	10. "don't leave me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> victuuri, set during canon

Yuuri wakes in the middle of the night in a panic, sheets tangled into an impenetrable mess around him, soaked with sweat and tying him down. 

“ _ Don’t leave me _ ,” he shouts, reaching into the darkened hotel room before it even registers where he is, his hand outstretched like it is on the ice, reaching, reaching, to that empty spot at the boards, at the wall. “Don’t  _ leave _ me,” he whispers again, half-sobbing, and he couldn’t begin to tell you what language he’s using. 

It doesn’t matter, because there’s no one here to hear him anyway. He is alone in this dark, strange, room, murmurs of people passing in the hallway not withstanding. He is alone, as alone as he’s ever been in his entire life, with no coach, no roommate, no parents, no sister. No dog. 

He struggles free of the sheets and pulls his damp shirt from his body in disgust. He can’t remember what he was dreaming, not really - he remembers that it was about Viktor, because isn’t it always about Viktor? Viktor’s laugh, Viktor’s smile; Viktor’s skating, Viktor’s coaching, Viktor’s dancing. Viktor on the ice, Viktor in the onsen, Viktor in Yuuri’s bed with his head thrown back and his mouth open and his eyes closed.

Viktor, slipping away from him; Viktor turning to walk in the opposite direction; Viktor looking at him without a shred of recognition before he skates off into a jubilant crowd of cheering fans without so much as a second glance at Yuuri.

Yuuri grinds the palms of his hands into his eyes, watching as starbursts flicker on the back of his eyelids and breathes

He feels like he’s been dragged along the bank of the Hasetsu river behind Makkachin, and he probably smells like it too, so he carefully extricates himself from the sheets and walks to the bathroom, stripping off his clothing as he goes. He takes a short, hot, shower, letting the heat seep into his muscles and bones, hoping it will help him relax. 

It’s a fool’s errand, but he tries. 

He gets out of the shower and dries off, turning out the bathroom light and wandering back into the main room. His bed is still trashed and sloppy, covers falling onto the floor and pillow shoved into an unrecognizable shape. 

The other bed - Viktor’s bed - is pristine and empty, and Yuuri is suddenly so, so tired. 

He climbs into it naked, shuddering at the chill of the sheets against his bare skin. It’s been made, but the linens haven’t been changed, and he tells himself that he can smell the faint remnants of Viktor’s shampoo on the pillow as he buries his face in it, pulling the covers up and over his head.

Viktor is not here, and the room is dark and empty beyond Yuuri and his aching heart. Viktor is on a plane, somewhere between here and Hasetsu, flying over the land and sea that have divided them all their lives in the hopes of finding his beloved Makkachin safe and alive. 

Yuuri cannot - will not - begrudge Viktor this, not any of it, not ever. 

He buries his face in the pillow, breathing deep and clutching at the sheets with his fists. 

“ _ Don’t leave me _ ,” he whispers into the dark.


End file.
